


penance and repentance

by from a forgotten time (retweet_this)



Category: Political RPF, Real News RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Apocalyptic Themes, Body Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Living While the World is Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:30:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retweet_this/pseuds/from%20a%20forgotten%20time
Summary: The world keeps turning and they have to turn with it.





	

“What news do you have of the President’s health?” April asks. She’s sitting in the first row. They all are. There aren’t enough of them to fill the whole briefing room anymore.

“The President…” Reince pauses. He pulls out a napkin and dabs at his eyes. They come back streaked with blood and he takes a slow breath. “The President is still healthy. He’s on the recommended regime and his physician is confident that the symptoms will come under control.”

Jim doesn’t bother raising his hand. “Is he still going to make the remarks at Friday’s mass funeral? Or will Vice President Ryan be taking that role again?”

“The schedule has not been finalized,” Reince says, slowly. He feels a tear sliding down his cheek and he wipes it away. “All right, final question – in every sense of the word.”

There’s a small rumble of chuckles from all six of them, and then Ashley raises her hand. “Reince, personal question – do you subscribe to the penance theory?”

Reince lets out a slow breath. “If you prostrate yourself in front of God, then he will absolve you of your sin.”

“What bible verse is that?” Jim asks, and there’s another rumble of laughter.

“All right, everyone, it’s time for my medicine – I’ll be back in a bit to say goodbye.” He waves as he steps off the podium and hurries out of the room before he can hear them start to cough and groan and bleed and everything else.

He’s gotten used to the smell, as has everyone else in America, but there’s still something that gets to him when he hears it.

The sounds of their suffering.

Tears are spilling out now and he’s clenching his fists as he steps into the open door of his office. The bottles are right on the table and he takes a pill from each, swallowing them dry and wiping his face with the sleeves of his shirt.

His nameplate is still there, turned the wrong way. Chief of Staff – chief of what staff? There’s barely any staff left. Ten officials, five interns, piles of dead bodies.

Cohn knocks on the door and sticks his head inside. “Hey, good briefing today.” He’s put on too much of the cream, Reince thinks, and his face looks more like a radioactive orange tan than regular human skin.

Orange tan. Fuck, does that bring memories back. Memories of a simpler time.

“Thanks,” Reince says weakly. He coughs a little. “My flight is at five. When’s Dina getting back?”

“She should be pulling up now,” Cohn says. He pulls out his phone and checks, before trying to stick it back in his pocket. It falls and hits the floor, and he sighs as he bends over to pick it up. “You gonna go back in now?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Reince replies. “Sally left some stuff at the house and I need to pick them up. And I still have to say goodbye to Paul.”

“All right.” Cohn watches him slowly get to his feet, then looks over at the door across the hall. “You gonna say goodbye to Bannon?”

Reince pauses for a moment, shoving his meds into his bag. “I think I should,” he says. “I mean, we did spend a lot of time together, back in the old days.”

“Oh, the old days,” Cohn says, and the fond sigh he lets out is all too relatable. “Fuck, I miss those.”

“Don’t we all. I’ll text when I land.” Reince pats him on the arm, bag strapped over his shoulder, and walks over to Bannon’s office. His hands hover over the door and then he shakes his head and just opens it.

The room is dark, like it always is now, but the mass behind the desk is distinctly noticeable. There’s the scent of blood and disease in the air, as there always is, but this time it’s tinged with something else – something that could be worse.

“You didn’t take your meds, did you?” Reince asks.

“They don’t do shit,” Bannon says. His voice is husky, dark, almost a growl. “Besides, according to Maggie Haberman, I’m living off pure spite.”

“I guess you are.” Reince sticks his hands in his pocket and sighs as he feels his face wet again. As though he wasn’t expecting it. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving today.”

“Good fucking riddance.” There’s a loud cough and the sound of something disgorging itself from Bannon’s throat. “You coward. You fucking traitor.”

“Penance is not cowardly,” Reince replies, almost in the exact same cadence as the phrase was relayed to him a week ago. “This is me trying to make things right. I can do better work trying to help in Kenosha than I can here in the White House.”

“The government is fucking failing.”

“The world is failing,” Reince counters. “People are dying everywhere.”

“People died here too,” Bannon points out. “Or have you already forgotten? I guess it’s understandable – pussy men like you can’t handle the horrors of war.” He clicks his tongue. “As for me, I still see Kellyanne scratching at her skin, watching it peel off, piece by fucking piece…”

Reince doesn’t say it, but sometimes he looks down and sees Sean’s blood on his hands. If he closes his eyes, he’ll see his face. “Goodbye, Bannon.”

“I’ll see you in fucking hell, Priebus.” He starts to cough, louder and wetter than before, and Reince has a feeling this will be the last time they see each other – alive, at least.

He closes the office door behind him and starts walking to the briefing room. The sounds still echo in his ears.

He can’t stop seeing Sean’s body in his arms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jake only listens to old music now. It’s easier to think of a past further than the one they just left, one where the future seemed bright and shiny and new. Not bloody and dead like this one.

Dana made him a playlist a couple of days before… well, before. She thought it would help him relax. It used to, it really did, but now it’s a little less… nice.

He coughs into his elbow and wipes away the blood, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the desk as Ella Fitzgerald’s voice fills the room. He picks up his phone and makes the call.

Favs picks up after a couple of rings. “Hey, did you catch the show?”

“I did,” Jake hums. “Though, to be fair, I’m still not sure people will really appreciate the fact that your show is called ‘Crooked Media’ now.”

“Lovett wanted to call it ‘Pod Saves CNN’ but we thought that would be too on-the-nose.” He chuckles softly when Jake laughs. “Tommy’s the one who explained that it wouldn’t make sense to call it a pod since it’s not a pod.”

“The second half is right, though,” Jake says. He leans back a little more. “I’m surprised Lovett made it through the whole hour without checking his Twitter.”

“Oh, believe me, he did it the moment we were off-camera.” They laugh again and Jake listens to Favs trail off in a cough.

“You guys got refills on your meds, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, we all did,” Favs says, assuring. “It’s just that… well, things like Twitter and the pod – it brings back some memories, you know? And it’s just so weird to do those optimistic news stories that aren’t about death when everyone knows that in an hour or so, you or Anderson or someone is going to come on and update on the death count and obit list.”

Jake shrugs. “I thought people would appreciate having some time out of the harrowing news cycle to laugh or something. I mean, that’s why we got Jon Stewart – not just because I wanted the complete set of Jon’s.”

Favs laughs, and there’s some vague and undefinable noises in the background – it takes Jake a moment to realize it’s the dogs, and his heart feels heavy in his chest. He clears his throat.

“It’s just that I wanted people to be able to take a break from everything, for a bit,” he finishes. “Life isn’t the same anymore but the world keeps turning and we have to turn with it.”

“That’s an admirable goal, Jake,” Favs says. “It’s getting late there, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Jake says. “Anderson’s going to be on soon. I probably should call him and double-check the reports.” He pauses a second. “You know, I hear people call him the new Walter Cronkite. Literally everyone in America watches his show, in the morning and evening, when he finally comes on.”

“Yeah, well, he deserves it,” Favs says. “He’s been a force for good, ever since all of this shit started. A calming, comforting voice that all of America believes in.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, softly. “I’ll be honest – I kind of wish it was going to be me.” He lets Favs laugh before adding, “Hey, did you read the story about how Priebus fled back to Kenosha and donated all his money to the Clinton Foundation?”

“You do know I live with Lovett, right?” Favs says, voice latent with humorous sarcasm. “We’re glad he at least donated to a charitable cause, but we’re definitely sure that he’s trying for penance.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Jake asks. “It seems like a pretty easy out. Then again,” he adds, “there are people out there who are completely unafflicted. No bloody mouths, no shriveled limbs, no peeling skin.”

“Remember when everyone used to be like that?”

“Yeah. Back in the days of yonder.”

There’s a long pause, and then Favs sighs. “All right, nice hearing from you, Jake. Let’s try to talk tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course,” Jake says. “Tell everyone I said hi. Especially Lovett.”

“Will do,” Favs says. “Do the same for me. And tell Rachel I love her haircut.”

Jake laughs as he hangs up. He slowly pulls himself to his feet and takes his medicine before heading down the hall. Rachel’s in her office too and he gives a courtesy knock on the open door. “Favs wanted you to know he loves your hair.”

Rachel smiles, shaking her head. “Keeping it a little longer helps hide most of the scars.” She says it as confidently as possible, but Jake knows it’s a boldfaced lie and he sits down across from her.

“Mind if I play my music here?” he asks. “Well, it’s not mine, it’s – it _was_ Dana’s – but it helps me relax. Might help you too.”

“Don’t you have to call Anderson?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “He’ll be fine. He always is.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, then she slowly nods. “All right… Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Jake smiles. It’s a painful one and she knows, but neither of them say anything about it. The offices are emptier and the lights are dimmer and there’s so much less of them.

But like he said earlier – the world keeps turning and they have to turn with it. He sets his phone on the desk and lets Frank Sinatra sing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maggie’s changing her bandages when Robert knocks on the door. “Hey, Abby and Jim went out on a takeout run. Any preferences?”

“Abby knows what I like,” she says. She carefully slides on her gloves and stands up. “Know when the next shipment is coming to New York?”

“It’ll probably be on Anderson in a bit,” he says. They make their way to the breakroom, TV already on and at full blast, and he sits down in one of the chairs. “You running out of bandages?”

“And pills.” She sits down beside him, hands resting on her thighs. “I mean, I keep Advil with me, but that doesn’t do much to pause the bleeding and I don’t want to keep bothering someone whenever I need to use the restroom.” She shakes her head. “It’s a fucking pain.”

“You know that no one minds, right?” he says. “We’re all just helping each other out.”

“I know, I know, but…” she trails off a little and shakes her head. “I just wish I could, I dunno, relieve stress like I used to, but now I can’t do anything. I wish I could at least smoke.”

“Ah, but then wouldn’t your mouth start bleeding?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re really considering the penance theory?”

He shrugs, a smirk pulling the corner of his mouth, but he quickly sobers up when the few commercials end and Anderson Cooper is back on the screen.

“Remember when they used to have shits like Lord on this?” Maggie asks.

Robert lets out a slight snort. “Oh, fuck, those were the days.” He shakes his head when Anderson starts going through the obituary list, letting out a slow sigh. “I don’t know why they make him do it.”

“He’s one of the few unafflicted,” Maggie reminds him.

“Really?”

She nods. “Yeah, just like Abby and Michelle Obama and a couple of others. The few people in the world – minus children – who aren’t slowly and painfully dying. Maybe because they’ve suffered enough.”

“Penance theory,” he says, and waggles his brow.

She chuckles softly and doesn’t say anything. They focus back on the obituary list, listening as Anderson, in that calm and cool voice of his, reads out the names of the famous dead. There are always some, every day – sometimes they’re not famous, sometimes they’re just ordinary people across America – but he always points them out.

As a reminder – even with the pills and the bandages and the ointments and everything else, they’re all still dying.

“I guess the President is still alive,” Robert sighs, once the commercials start to play. “And Bannon.”

Maggie shakes her head slowly. “I can’t fucking believe that a guy like Bannon is still alive when Glenn…” her voice suddenly shuts and she can’t push any words out through.

Robert, to his credit, keeps looking at the TV and away from her. “Remember when being a pundit was a big deal?’ he asks, after a moment. “When we’d be on CNN or some other cable news show to talk about how we thought the President was ruining the country or not?”

“Yeah,” Maggie says. Her throat still hurts but she doesn’t want to sit in silence. “When being a White House correspondent was a big deal. And now… now there are only ten of us total – here in this office and back in the White House.” She shakes her head. “The fourth estate is dying.”

“I don’t know,” Robert shrugs. “I mean… news is still happening. Maybe not here in DC, not since martial law was instated, but in other places. People want to know that the world is still turning around them.”

“David does get a lot of fan mail,” she muses. She lets out a chuckle and shakes her head. “All right, sure, but what about us? We’re here in the capital of a government that’s no longer running. The last story you and I wrote was about Reince fucking Priebus – do you think people really care about that?”

“Yes,” Robert says. His voice sounds so sure, so confident, and Maggie can’t think of any argument to make.

Anderson returns onscreen and he clears his throat. “I have just been informed that former President Bill Clinton, our nation’s 42nd President, has just passed away in a New York City hospital. We have details coming in shortly.”

Robert sighs as he gets to his feet. “I’ll bring over the laptop, you start thinking of what we want to say in the obit.”

“Okay,” Maggie says. Her eyes are still on the screen, watching as they show pictures of Bill Clinton, way back when, almost another lifetime ago.

“It’s the end of an era,” she says aloud. “The end of a fucking era.”

There’s another commercial break.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chuck hasn’t put on a suit since they stripped him of his title. Well, they didn’t really strip him of his title, just of the power behind it. He’s a senator in name only.

His hands shake as he starts doing up his tie and he has to force back his cough in order to prevent his suit from staining even further. It’s the last clean suit he has – he has to make it count.

He’s taking his pills, one by one, water between each, when his phone buzzes. He almost doesn’t answer it, but he slides it open and presses it against his cheek. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Nancy says. Her voice sounds terrible, grating against his ears and sending an uncomfortable chill down his spine when he thinks about how she used to sound.

“Hey,” Chuck says. “How are you?”

“Been better.” There’s a pause and he hears her take a breath from her oxygen mask. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

She takes another breath. “You going to Bill’s funeral?”

“Yeah,” he says, sighing a little. “Hillary’s sending over a car. I can’t exactly walk that much anymore – part of my leg has necrotized. It’s only a matter of time before it spreads further.”

“That sucks,” she says plainly.

“It does,” he agrees. There’s a long and heavy pause filled by the sound of Nancy breathing and the machines beeping around her.

“Don’t die before me, Chuck,” she says. “I don’t think I’d be able to make it to your funeral and you don’t know how much that would pain me.”

“Don’t worry,” Chuck says, voice steady, “I’m not going to die until Trump is six feet under or burning in a mass grave.”

Her laughter sounds painful, and she lets out a slow breath. “Fuck, remember when he was our biggest problem?”

“I think he still is,” he says. “None of this happened until he came into office, and now we’re all paying for it. Well, _almost_ all of us.”

“You’d think that Anderson Cooper would have something like bleeding eyes and bleeding hands, but no. And Michelle looks as good as she did back in 2008,” Nancy sighs. She clears her throat. “Hey, what was wrong with Bill? I never asked and he was never that much in public.”

“Necrosis and a bleeding mouth,” Chuck tells her. “Hillary says it was a painful way to go. Near the end, he just wouldn’t stop bleeding.” He lets out a slow sigh. “Fuck, remember when our biggest problem was how to save Obamacare?”

“Now Obamacare has taken on a completely different kind of meaning.” Her chuckle drifts into a cough. “They’re like fucking patron saints.”

“The patron saints of the hopeless,” he says. He shakes his head. “I think Reince Priebus literally prays to them at night.”

“I know I do,” she says, and the way she says it makes him wonder if she’s being serious or not. Given what they’ve been through, ever since it all started, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was telling the truth.

There’s a knock on the door on Chuck’s end and he lets out a slow sigh. “My ride’s here.”

“Okay,” Nancy says. “I’ll see you on TV then.”

“I’ll call you after,” he promises. He pauses a moment, and then grips the phone with both hands. “Nancy… get better, all right?”

“I’ll try,” she says, voice low and ragged. “I’ll try.”

“Okay.” He hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket. The knock comes again and he slowly gets to his feet, adjusting his tie and heading to the door.

He might not be a senator anymore, and the world might be completely different, but he’s still Chuck Schumer, dammit, and he’s not going to let the end of the world stop him.


End file.
